case’ – were almost over. Soon their relationship would be in the open. She prayed that he had broken the news to his wife and that everything would be reasonably civilised between them. She didn’t want anything to cloud their happiness.
But the minute Ian walked into the flat, Ali knew something was wrong. Earlier, on the phone, he’d been unusually abrupt but she’d put that down to his being preoccupied by something at work. Now she could see there was more to it than that. Although they hadn’t seen each other for over two weeks, he barely reciprocated her welcoming kiss. She thought she detected alcohol beneath the strong smell of peppermint on his breath. By the time she’d hung up his coat, he was sitting on the sofa, staring into the middle distance, elbows on knees, hands steepled in front of his face, fingers tapping against one another. His shoulders rose and fell with each breath.
‘How was Christmas?’ she tried.
‘Yeah. Fine.’ He still didn’t look at her. And he didn’t mention his wife.
‘Is something the matter? Difficult day?’ This was hardly the reunion she’d envisaged.
‘I’m sorry.’ He snapped out of his reverie and turned to her. ‘Something at work’s bothering me. That’s all. Give me a minute or two to come down. I want to hear about the holiday.’
Experience had taught Ali never to probe into whatever was troubling a lover. Her role was to distract, to provide an alternative to their other world. That was why they liked coming here. Her apartment was a retreat, not just for her, but for those men who had lives they wanted to forget for a few hours. Spending time with her was therapeutic although she was no therapist. She asked no awkward questions, never held them to any kind of emotional ransom. And in return, she got to run her life just as she wanted it.
She busied herself by bringing over two small bowls from the kitchen, one filled with the black olives he liked, and the other with cashews. After returning for the bottle of Medoc and two glasses, she turned her iPod to Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major, one of the most soothing pieces of music she knew, and went over to him. She was practised in jogging a man out of his worries for a few hours. That was what she did. As she sat down, she thought she heard him sigh but she just tucked her feet under her and sat with her head resting on his shoulder. This was where she belonged now. This was how they would spend so many evenings in the future, just the two of them.
‘I’ve missed you,’ she murmured. ‘Really missed you.’
‘Have you?’ he asked, sounding as if he was a million miles away.
‘I think that was your cue to say how much you’ve missed me.’ She gave a nervous laugh, sat up and looked at him, puzzled by what could be distracting him so much, feeling the first whisper of alarm.
But instead of turning to her, he stood up and went over to the window, staring out across the communal garden. His hands were in his pockets, jingling his loose change. ‘Of course I did. You must know that.’
‘But it would be nice to be told.’ Annoyed with herself for sounding like the nagging wife she imagined he was escaping, she tried again. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve been so looking forward to seeing you.’ Going over to stand behind him, she wrapped her arms around his waist. ‘We could go upstairs. Or I’ve got champagne in the fridge.’
‘Not yet.’ He turned and kissed her nose. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind at the moment. I probably shouldn’t have come.’
‘But we haven’t seen each other for weeks. We’ve got so much to talk about.’ She took both his hands and kissed him back. Over the two years she had known him, Ali couldn’t remember a time when he had refused an invitation to her bedroom. But, having trained herself not to question her lovers’ moods but just to wait them out, she didn’t object. She was confident he’d tell her what was bothering him when he was ready. Despite her growing unease, she was prepared to wait. Worming his troubles from him was a wife’s job, not a mistress’s. In a few weeks, when everyone knew they were together, things would be different. They would be able to talk and share so much more than they ever had before. She would get to know him so much better. She could afford to maintain a sympathetic silence now.
‘Tell me about your holiday.’ He held her hand and guided her back to the sofa.
‘How long have you got?’ Ali pretended she hadn’t noticed how uninterested he sounded. But rather than bore him about what he didn’t want to hear, she passed across the linen Nehru shirt she’d had specially made for him. In the Udaipur fabric emporium, she had been so sure it was the perfect present. But as he pulled it from the packet, there was something distinctly charity shop about it. The stitching, which had looked charmingly authentic in Udaipur, now looked embarrassingly amateur, the linen cheap, and, when he held it up, the sleeves were obviously way too long.
‘It’s not you at all, is it?’ she said, disappointed.
‘Not really.’ As he put it over the arm of the sofa, they exchanged a smile that reassured her that he was coming back to her.
‘OK, let’s forget Christmas and India,’ she said. ‘Let’s talk about now, about us.’ Since it seemed the wrong moment to ask him if he’d told his wife about their plans, she went to the table where she’d put the particulars she’d collected from a couple of estate agents just before she went away. ‘I love the look of this one. And I’m sure we could get the price down.’ She picked up a brochure showing an end-of-terrace three-storey Georgian town house. ‘Great kitchen and look at the roof terrace.’ My God, I’m trying so hard, I even sound like an estate agent, she thought. Ease up or you’ll never get him onside.
But Ian was pouring himself a glass of wine without even asking if she’d like one. ‘I thought we’d decided to live here,’ he said, his voice flat and matter-of-fact, the enthusiasm of a few weeks ago vanished.
‘You decided to live here, but I thought that once you saw what was around, I might be able to change your mind.’ She flicked over the photos in the brochure. ‘I know we could be so happy somewhere else. A house of our own, with none of the history this place has.’
‘You make it sound as if someone was murdered here,’ he said, coming over to take the details from her. He didn’t look beyond the first page.
‘Oh, you know,’ she said, becoming more exasperated with his refusal to engage. ‘There were other men before you.’
His face tensed as he put the brochure down. ‘I thought we’d agreed not to talk about them.’
‘But of course there were,’ she protested. ‘I thought you’d be happy that I want to leave behind the life I had before you.’ She could feel herself beginning to gabble, so reined herself back. It would be a wrench to leave the apartment but she felt sure it was the right thing to do. ‘Anyway, we need somewhere a bit bigger than this.’
Ian placed his hand on top of hers, heavy and warm. ‘I honestly don’t think we do.’ His grip tightened. ‘I can live with your past if you can.’ Her relief at the sudden improvement of his mood was muddled by the growing realisation that they didn’t see their future in the same way at all. During her holiday, she had used the time she spent on her own to think of little else, planning and plotting their life together. How disappointing to realise that he obviously hadn’t done the same. There was so much ahead of them that he hadn’t even considered.
‘And if I get pregnant?’ The words slipped out without her having time to stop and think. Watching his face darken, she would have given anything in the world to be able
